


Forever is a Permanent Word

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, she runs at the mention of marriage. Today, however, feels different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever is a Permanent Word

**Author's Note:**

> "Engagement sex" was the tumblr prompt, 6k words of angst and smut was what happened. Thankya, xoxogossipgrumpy.

"We’re engaged!" The surprised and happy outburst from everyone in Granny’s flowed over Emma like an itchy wool blanket, so much so that she had to suppress the urge to scratch at her wrists and the backs of her hands. She smiled along with everyone else, even offering the happy couple her (yeah, okay, sincere) congratulations, the entire time feeling the subtle rigidity of Killian’s fingertips pressed into her spine, the unrelenting air of unhappy pirate standing behind her.

She knew what he was thinking, what he _had_ to be thinking; when (if ever) would that be them?

One time, _one time_ the subject came up, and Emma had done what she always did—change the topic before beating a hasty retreat. It wasn’t even like Killian asked her to marry him or anything, it was just one of those things—David making a comment about them bickering like an old married couple, Killian retorting that they made up like teenagers; Emma’s mind wandering for a bit as the two men good-naturedly razzed each other. Vague, floaty images pervaded her mind, nothing at all specific; her hair shining in the sun, white silky fabric flowing about (not a veil, not a veil, seriously, _not_ a veil); the town decked out in like, tulle and bunting and flowers; her mother’s tearful, beaming face; Killian in a tie (oh, sweet lord in heaven). Then the hazy, not-at-all-a-wedding images vanished and a deep, abiding panic took their place, hence her beating a hasty retreat.

She spent the rest of the day vigorously chasing after a group of the Lost Boys who were tagging rude words and crude stick figures in Sharpie all over Storybrooke’s businesses. When she finally nailed that little shit leader Gordie, she did all she could to keep from literally tossing him in the cell, near barking at her dad when he asked her if everything was okay.

So, that happened.

Emma never dwelled on weddings by any stretch of the imagination. God, no. She wasn’t a wedding kind of girl. Not that she was against them, per se, she just… didn’t picture herself in the dress with the veil and the tulle and the bouquet tossing. Nothing wrong with it, just wasn’t her. She supposed if she thought on it long enough, she had always assumed she’d just get married in Vegas (and later on, divorced in Reno).

Yeah, as it turns out, not only was she sure she could never leave Storybrooke for some Elvis wedding without the whole damned town collapsing in and on itself, but she was also pretty sure that Killian would never ask. Mostly because she picked a fight later on that day (she could admit it, that one was totally on her), and as always, he had to go and point out that the comment about them being an old married couple had gotten to her, he knew it, he saw it in her eyes, it was an off-the-cuff remark, why did she have to get so angry about it, and by the way, no one asked her to marry him, anyway.

That particular blow-out was followed by mind-boggling, dirty, ripping into each other, how-the-fuck-did-I-get-bruises- _there_ sex. The kind that only comes around when you _really_ fight, when the subject of the fight is so deep-seated and emotional for both of you that the only way to get around it is to fucking tear into each other physically and metaphorically, expose all the wounds, then bury them back using each other to fill the holes until they scab over; new flesh made from the both of you knitting together so that maybe the next time someone brings it up, it won’t be as awful.

Either that, or when you fight about it again, the scars are ripped so bad there’s no flesh left to cover the old wounds much less the new ones, so you have to amputate.

Emma shook off the misty memories of the fight (and the furious, glorious after-fight coupling), trying to focus on the present.

Then she remembered where they were. Granny’s. Late evening supper turned impromptu engagement party for a couple she barely knew. Suddenly, a giant Leroy-worthy mug of ale was pressed into her hands and somewhere in the distance samba music started playing on what sounded like a eight-thousand-year-old record player. She could discern her parents congratulating the happy couple (was that one of the dwarves?) and Ruby was dancing a one-woman cha-cha and Henry was leading his other mom in a sweet, awkward two-step and it all came closing down around her, but she promised herself ages ago that she wouldn’t run anymore, that she’d stop and breathe and think about the good things, the anchors, the shit that kept her there in Storybrooke.

Like him. Killian.

Who was gently turning her, not into him, exactly, but more facing him than the crowd. He knew her well that way, that she’d resent his forcing comfort on her and instead offered it, like, “hey, lost girl, I know you’re an emotionally stunted asshole who rebuffs my attempts at real, abiding intimacy every single time and yet I keep coming back for more despite the fact that you have the emotional maturity of a Redwood tree and I’ve been waiting a thousand years for you to show any growth and hey, why am I even here again?”

Oh, but she knew why. She knew. Everyone knew. She only had to take the extra, literal step toward him and look at him to know.

Once upon a time, Emma would have shied from looking up into his face, but hey. Small steps forward are still progress, and at least she’d gotten to the point where she could willfully face the brutal intensity of the love shining in his eyes, sometimes in desperation (kind of like now, when he was sure she’d reject him or pick a fight or be hurt physically or emotionally), but sometimes, _often_ _times_ , it was in utter adoration, also like now, like he still couldn’t believe after all this time that she was here, she was with him, she had chosen him, and she wasn’t going to run away. Like he was lucky to have her.

That’s what kept her from running, anyway. How could she run away from emotion that raw, especially when it was reciprocated?

Not that she ever told him in so many words. With her actions, sure, and definitely with her body. Definitely that.

The thought that the fight had been almost six months ago gave her pause, and she regarded his face as she tried to figure out what to say.

By tacit agreement, they never brought up the subject of marriage in any way, shape, or form, ever again.

Thing was… she didn’t mind the thought so much, not anymore. The idea of maybe, possibly broaching the topic—God, she knew she ought to feel the familiar pang of panic sour her soul and make her magic curdle at even the thought of the word, but oddly… none of that happened. More like a hot clenching in her gut, but at least not something that made her want to run? And how weird is it that she’s just now noticing that she hasn’t felt the need to run for some time now? It wasn’t like she could just say, “Hey, I don’t mind the word being mentioned in my presence anymore.”

Not that she _wanted_ to talk about it, but she knew she couldn’t just bring it up with him. Not without it turning into a big thing, anyway.

She didn’t want to talk about it, seriously, it’s just—

With the way he looked, like… _pained_ at the way he had to hold himself back for her sake—

She knew it, she could feel it, that he’d marry her in a heartbeat. That when he said, “I love” and “always” and “until I die and unto the afterlife” and all the other millions of ways he’d mixed words around in that Killian way of his to convey the idea of “forever,” she _knew_.

And now, simple as that, she knew, too.

So: how to go about conveying that to him without using the actual words? Tell him, “hey, I’m probably not going to bolt the next time it’s suggested, joked about, teased, or mocked that we could get married” without it sounding like a hint or _worse_ , like she was only telling him what he wanted to hear?

She had zero answer to that one.

Her inner turmoil must have shown in her face because his worry brows descended, deepening the furrow between his eyes, the one that always disappeared when she returned his steady gaze.

"All right, love?" he murmured, fingering at the belt loops at the back of her waist.

"Yeah, just… can we get out of here?"

"Of course," he replied, his voice low and in her ear, the soft rasp tugging at her in places and parts. The utter reliability of him made her feel soft and warm in those places and she was suddenly eager to show him the words she couldn’t possibly say.

They were quiet on the short walk back to their place; while it was a good kind of quiet on Emma’s part, she could feel Killian’s tension, and she knew why he was holding himself like that, like he wanted to say things that he knew she wouldn’t want to hear. She only hoped he wasn’t growing impatient with her inability to be a mature, emotionally whole person; she didn’t think so, but God, she was constantly worried about it. That he’d get fed up with it. That he’d one day think, “this isn’t worth it.”

She looked up at him and stepped closer to nudge his shoulder as he opened the gate that led up the walkway to their apartment. When he looked down and smiled at her she was caught, totally hypnotized by that fire-blue spark in his eyes, and as it always did, she was reassured in his love for her. It made her glow, warm and happy, and she had to bite her lip to stifle the sudden urge to jump him right there at the entryway to their building.

Just as they reached their door, she slid her arms around his waist and crushed her chest to his back, giving herself a faceful of warm pirate and making him grunt with the force of her embrace. She slid her arms from his waist and smoothed her hands up his body until she was grasping each of his shoulders tightly.

"Love you," she muffled into his jacket. She knew it was indiscernible as far as words go, but she also knew he felt the truth of them. He leaned his head over and kissed her knuckles, simultaneously unlocking the door to their apartment. Just before he turned the knob to swing it open, her other hand decided to declare mischief and slid down, past his waist, smoothing along his abdomen until her thumb hooked into the pocket on his jeans. With her thumb anchored, her hand continued its meandering, her fingers spread wide, seeking… _there it is_.

"What are you up to?" he murmured, chuckling so softly she felt it rather than heard it. She grinned into his back, big and wide, her laughter a bit huskier than usual.

"No good."

"I like that," he hummed in approval, then finally swung the door open. Turning quickly, his hand caught her mischievous one as he pivoted; he yanked her into him until their chests were flush with each other, bringing her wrist up and pressing an open-mouthed kiss there. He sucked lightly, running his tongue on the sensitive vasculature there a few times before giving it a decided scrape of his teeth.

"Killian," she hissed. _Fuck_ , but she loved this guy. “Inside. Get.”

"I am ever your servant, madam," he murmured, his mouth still at her pulse. He kissed her there again and then abruptly let go, spinning back and walking into their apartment, leaving her standing there, slightly stunned and very turned on.

Henry was sitting at the kitchen table looking harassed, surrounded by a couple of notebooks, highlighters, his favorite pens, and his lit textbook. When he looked up at them his face darkened slightly; he started gathering up his school stuff.

"Heya, kid," she offered brightly, really hoping he hadn’t witnessed his mother totally caressing pirate cock in the doorway of their apartment, but it wasn’t like he didn’t live with them and know. She and Killian tried their hardest to not traumatize the boy, but they were always all over each other, and Henry had learned to roll with it (and roll his eyes and say "gross" a lot).

"Hey, Ma. Killian. I’m going to Regina and Robin’s. I told them I’d watch Roland tonight, anyway."

"No, that’s not necessary, lad, we were just—"

"Yeah, you both have that look in your eyes, and I have a pretty major in-class essay on _the Outsiders_ tomorrow. I need, uhh. You know. Silence.”

Killian and Emma avoided looking at him and each other as the kid beat a hasty retreat out the door, Henry turning to salute them both as he easily swung the door shut behind him.

"Smart lad, that one," she heard just to her left, and when she turned to retort in kind, she found herself being pressed into the nearest wall with a warm Killian chest against hers. "Now, where were we? Oh, right. Here." He lifted her other hand, the one that had not been subjected to his teeth, pressing the lightest of kisses into her palm. Her fingers curled under his chin, her nails scratching lightly at the perma-scruff there and hoping against hope it would be scraping against her skin later.

Without warning, he did it _again_ _,_ drawing his teeth down her wrist until she dug her fingernails into his skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, her chest heaving, that warm tingle down in her pelvis making her clench involuntarily and then with purpose. Biting her lip, she tilted her face a scant inch or so until their eyes met.

"Was that a command, love?" His voice was deep, husky, full of that slight menace it got when he was feeling particularly horny or angry or irritated or simply needy for her, and she kind of suspected this time it was a combination of all of that. That clenching thing intensified and she felt a thrill of arousal (and magic) pulse up her body in time with the clenches.

"You bet your pirate ass it was."

"Good."

Using her free hand, she reached down and swatted at that ass, ending in a harsh grab that pulled his pelvis into her; she could feel the thick warmth of him bump into her stomach and she had to gulp to keep her mouth from going dry.

"Take me to bed, sailor."

"Aye aye, Captain."

He hooked her by the belt loop, his hand on the opposite side of her waist; yanking her away from the wall, his face pressed into her neck and he nipped at the skin there, sucking lightly, enough to leave a mark that would fade come morning.

Then he swatted her ass and ended on a squeeze, mirroring her move, only this time he leaned down and swung her over his shoulder in a tidy maneuver that never failed to impress her. She grinned as he carried her to their bedroom.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Pirate."

"Arrrr," he said, laughing, his body shaking so much that her hair tangled in her eyes as she hung upside down.

It was a game they had played many times but it was a classic; there was still that undercurrent of tenseness coming off him in waves, however, and suddenly, Emma wanted nothing more than to ease his worry, whatever it was, whether it was to assure him that she, too, meant forever with every touch of her body, or whether she would be able to convey that the M-word and that stupid impromptu engagement shit wasn’t going to turn her into some crazed runaway not-bride, or whatever.

But then she couldn’t even think about that anymore, not when he was leaning down to let her body slide off him and onto their bed, not when he was stepping back in the shadows of their room, shrugging out of his jacket with a purposeful shrug of his shoulders that drove her nuts every time. He wasn’t smiling as he stared at her on the bed, propped up on her elbows, her legs splayed out and hanging over the edge. She could just make out that fire in his eyes, the flames seeming to make the dark parts glow with menace as he quickly made work of his vest and the buttons on his shirt; rather than shrugging out of it, however, he continued his unbuttoning, thumbing open the top of his jeans and then zipping down only halfway. Her breathing had picked up and he was staring intently at her chest, watching the heaving of her breasts with each breath she took.

His hand dropped from his zipper and he stepped closer to her, a shaft of light from the window streaking across his cheek. His movement toward her made her scramble up the bed, a sly smile on her face. She saw the answering curl of his sinister grin, the shadows at play in the moonlight deepening the crease of his dimple.

"See something you like, love?"

"Always."

His grin dropped and he leaned over her, bracing hand and hook on either side of her elbows. The sides of his shirt tented around her, exposing his body so enticingly that she wanted to rip the fucking thing off. Emma’s eyes flicked to the expanse of his chest, the whorls of hair she knew so well, the silver-healed scar just under the bottom of his ribs on the left, the sinewy lines of muscle on either side of his hips veeing down, the hair trailing and trailing and trailing and damn, his pants were hanging off his hips now, probably only still holding on because of his now obvious and massive erection, and hell, that half-zip thing was done on purpose, he knew she loved looking at him, what a fucking _tease_ , goddamned _pirate_ , she hated it when he used her own lust against her, she hated that he wasn’t doing anything, God, just _touch_ already, just—

His mouth took hers, rough and insistent, his tongue plundering as it tended to do, sweeping but not dwelling, tasting and testing. She could feel his tension, feel the way he poured it out into the kiss, his way of venting his frustration with her and on her, an act of love and coupling that she usually loved but not this time, she didn’t want it like this.

She could feel his urgency, could feel that he was going to do as she sometimes did, fuck the feelings away, but _no_ , dammit, she wanted this to be meaningful, she wanted to go slow and show him that she loved him and she was open to more. She poured all of that, all of it into her kisses, moving her mouth slowly over his insistent lips, kissing with purpose, with intent, with love and with all that she, Emma, had to give. Like that, she felt his movements mirror hers, his lips slowing, easing; giving and soft. He pulled her bottom lip between his, his teeth oh-so lightly scraping the sensitive flesh, the tip of his tongue soothing along her lip as he released it.

He broke the kiss, leaning back and searching her face, asking a question with his eyes. She smiled, big and full, hoping her own eyes shone as brightly for him as his did for her.

"Hi," she breathed, a huff of laughter escaping at his happy, answering grin.

"Hullo, yourself," he murmured, his brow raising and making her bite her lip. She yanked at the loose lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to feel his skin on hers. When his chest bumped against her sweater, she let out a laugh. Usually, she was the one to lose her clothes first, and her absolute __joy__ in the moment made her laugh with abandon.

"What’s so funny, love?" His perplexed tone of voice made her laugh louder, the vibration of it making her skin tingle; she only hoped he felt half the delight she was feeling, even though they had a layer of sweater between them.

"Nothing. Everything. Take my clothes off, please." Her smile lingered as his broadened and he obliged. He stood up, propping his knees on the edge of the mattress for balance. Instead of going for her sweater he started with her jeans, flicking the button open in a familiar maneuver, pulling on the placket to ease the zipper down. She sucked in her bottom lip and lifted her hips, laughing at the look of impatience on his face.

Jeans gone, underwear gone, shoes—who gives a fuck, she was bare from the waist down. He took a moment to appreciate, as he always did, his eyes constantly roaming over her skin, never settling in one spot. She could feel the caress of it, had to bite back the welling of emotion because every time, _every_ goddamned time, she saw his love for her in his eyes, and if she managed to convey even a tenth of the same thing to him in her own heated gaze, then she could die knowing he knew how much she loved him. To be told he loved her was amazing; to see it shining in the heated intensity of his eyes was _astounding_. And he _always_ looked at her that way. She had stopped questioning why he loved her so much ages ago; acceptance was a wonderful thing.

He reached out and put the tip of his finger right above her navel, circling it twice before continuing a path downward, his touch feather-light, the path he traced lifting when she gasped in a shuddering breath that made her belly swell with air and feeling. He chuckled and then tapped on her skin, making her expel the breath. Then he continued down, down, down, but instead of going for the obvious (he _never_ did as she expected, even after all this time), he veered and traced right into the crease between leg and pelvis, purposefully tickling her and making her jerk into his hand.

With a grin he winked at her, using his hook to press her body back into the mattress. Quickly, he divested himself of clothes, letting them fall where he stood.

“Right, then. Off with that top.”

She obliged, sitting up and reaching for the hem of her sweater. When she had it over her head she felt the dip of the bed as he crawled up, his knees on either side of her hips. She was breathing embarrassingly fast, struggling when the collar got stuck on her head, her hair falling all over her face. It didn’t help that she felt him reach around to snap her bra off with a practiced flick of his fingers; her breasts felt heavy as they fell, her nipples catching the underwire of her bra, the sharp pain making her gasp and squirm, that clenching feeling starting to pulse down below.

“I’ve got you, love,” he said, his voice hoarse and full. She felt the sweater lift off her head, then the bra was removed and unceremoniously tossed somewhere off to the side.

She looked up at him through the tangled curtain of her hair, smiling when he gently combed the strands from her face with both hand and hook.

“Yeah, you do,” she said softly, biting her lip at the expression on his face, the soft wonder in it. Man, he really did love her.

Then she was gasping and he was grasping, burying his face in her neck and squeezing her hip, his fingertips pressing into her flesh as his hand clasped it, alternating brushing his palm across her skin and digging into her thigh. She laid back, shimmying her hips as he readjusted his position above her.

Still holding her leg, he flicked his wrist, indicating she should spread her legs. She watched his face, watched his brow furrow in contemplation, his head tilting to the side as he regarded her lower half. He always seemed so fascinated by whatever it was he saw, and she supposed she was the same way with him, with looking at his visible need, near hypnotized at the way it seemed to strain toward her, bobbing and shifting with each subtle movement from his body.

He squeezed her thigh lightly, his thumb pressing closer and closer to where she pulsed insistently, the inner clenching out of control now as he tilted his head this way and that, pursing his lips as if he were trying to decide his next course of action.

He did not disappoint. Without removing his gaze from the apex of her thighs, he lifted his hand slightly, his palm grazing up her thigh, over her navel, his fingers splaying above her ribs but not touching; when he reached the dip between her breasts she sucked in a breath, both because she needed it and because she was aching for his touch and hoping to make contact. Chuckling darkly, he spread out his fingers until his pinky and thumb brushed the swelling on either side, making her tremble with the light touch.

“Sensitive,” he said, a hum of approval in his tone. “Good.”

“Yes.”

Without warning, he pounced. It was a sudden assault on her and she was fucking grateful for it, was near out of her mind with want by the time he started pinching, twisting and rolling her nipple around and around until her head was tossing back and forth, her neck straining up when she felt cool metal at her other breast, an unbearable scraping across her nipple though it was nothing but a gentle press. The tandem motions were making her writhe, her thighs pressing into each other, trying to ease the ache that had settled between her legs.

“Killian,” she breathed. It was all she was capable of saying, her only coherent thought his name. And it did the trick.

She felt the weight of all of him, his love and lust covering her completely, the rasp of hair all down his body scratching the hell out of her overly sensitive skin, his breath at her neck, his stubble roughing up her jaw as he mouthed her ear, biting on the lobe. Heavy breaths, his and hers, now mingling as his lips made their way across her cheek and onto her mouth, the moist warmth of his tongue meeting hers, the thrust of his body as he nudged between her thighs, heavy and thick. She pressed her back into the mattress and arched her hips up, desperate for friction of any kind, lifting her ass and hoping he’d—

—press right into her and he did, and _God_. She sighed, relishing the invasion, the always-surprising fullness and heat, as if despite the number of times they’d been like this, despite the number of times she’d thought about this in quiet moments, she never quite remembered how right and good it felt, but also how _full. S_ he tested shifting her hips a bit, trying to adjust, allowing him to slide in a bit farther, their hips pressing into each other, their mouths at each other’s ears, breathing out and in, pushing out and in, chests heaving out, in, out, in, catching the rhythm, rocking in time to the beat of the other’s heart and need.

He lifted onto his elbows and peered into her face, his mouth slack. She saw that fire-blue flash in his eyes and reached up to capture a kiss when he rocked into her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Emma,” he murmured back.

Then it became urgent. She lifted her knees and he fell into her more, planted her feet firmly on the mattress and opened wide as he gave her this filthy grin full of gleeful delight. He straightened his arms to brace himself and she knew that meant another rip in the mattress but who _gives_ a fuck. Her arms lifted, her hands framing his jaw as she tried to draw his head to hers for more kissing but he pushed up onto his knees, his hand braced on the inside of her thigh, the cold press of hook on the other, all the while still inside her, still pounding away and oh, _there_ , yes, _there_.

“There,” she rasped.

“This,” he retorted, gritting his teeth. His hand slid down to cup her ass, and with both hand and hook he rocked her on her back farther until her knees almost rested on her shoulders and _oh_ , this angle, Jesus C _hrist_ this angle.

He dropped back down, arms straightened on either side of her shoulders. Balanced on just hand, hook, and knees, he began a new assault, and it was brutal. With her knees bent and spread, she was utterly at his mercy. She had to hold onto her own legs to keep from moving because there, there, _there_. He was thrusting and snarling and she loved it, she loved _him_.

The tension built, the clenching _so_ involuntary and the sliding in and out, the way he hit a ridge that started this tingle and tickle in so many spots at once, radiating all over her legs and her chest and oh, oh, was that her magic or his magic because it felt like the stars and she was seeing stars, his heart hammering and the slide of him, just yes, no, _God_.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, oh God.”

“Emma.” A benediction. His mouth at her brow, his body on and in her, movements erratic and thrumming and _God_ , first one thigh started to shake and _there_ , and then the other thigh until she couldn’t hold it anymore, she had to let go, she had to go, she had to _oh_.

_Oh_.

“Oh, oh.” Yes.

_Yes_.

Floating and falling, and laughing, she was laughing and calling out in helpless disbelief and there was him, stilled and trembling above her, his face a study in pain and wonderment, rutting lightly in and against her, coming down from a high and so wrapped up in her that she caught her breath just looking at him, at that face that always looked so good to her, so Killian. She put her hands on his jaw just to hold it as he came down, watched as each line in his face unwound, felt his muscles un-tense one at a time, his arms going slack, his hips resting against hers as she lowered her legs, utterly unable to hold the tight position anymore.

They lay against each other for a moment, his face buried in her neck. When he was finally able to move, he placed a sloppy kiss under her ear, mumbling something about sweaty pirate. Generally he would lie on her longer, knowing she didn’t mind the weight or the contact, but she could sense purpose in his movements.

After a pause where they simply lay next to each other, catching their breath, she felt him turn his head to face her.

“Not that I am complaining by any stretch of the imagination, love, but—what was that about?”

She could have feigned ignorance, but he knew her way too well for that. She considered for one brief moment shrugging it off, but her heart was still racing from the intensity of him, and her love was so strong in that moment that she allowed the words without censoring them. Kind of blurted them out, actually.

“Marriage.”

“Come again?”

She laughed at the confusion in his voice, but her heart and magic skipped a beat because there, underlying the perplexed pirate-y rumble was a note of hope, of happiness, of the skies clearing and the sun poking through. God, it was a mixed feeling that infused her because she could do that with one tiny little (huge, enormous) word; it was always that way with them and sometimes, she felt the burden of his love pressing on her, making her short of breath, but this was not one of those times. This was light and wonderful, and she knew that in a thousand years she couldn’t even try to deserve his love, but she knew that she had it all the same.

“Was that a formal offer, there, Swan?” He was doing that thing, that thing where he tries to joke away his unease (and in this case, his hope), and that made her heart hurt. She stared at the ceiling, trying to come up with the words, but as the silence between them stretched, something inside her snapped and she just thought, _oh fuck it_. _Go for broke_.

“I was thinking about it, earlier. At Granny’s. Just that… you don’t have to tiptoe around it anymore. I… don’t hate the idea.”

He didn’t respond to that and she worried that he was confused or angry or hell, asleep. She turned her head to find him staring at her with that blue-eyed intensity, the one that always made her breathe a little bit faster.

“Killian?”

“Emma.” His breath and her name ghosted across her face, making her mouth curl at one corner in a smile. “This is enough for me. You know that.” His eyes were searching hers, searching desperately, and she wanted to erase that from him, take away anything in him that ever gave doubt; she couldn’t stand the thought that he might think she didn’t love him enough.

And like that, it clicked into place. This man, this _pirate_ who had given up everything in the world for her but would never give her up for anything or anyone; this man—this beautiful, perfectly imperfect man—he _loved_ her. He really, really loved her and God, wasn’t that enough for her?

It really, really was.

A crazy-intense feeling welled up in her belly, boiling low and rumbling upward in a burst of lightness, and she knew it was love for him and her magic interacting, agreeing, and she felt like it was going to spew out of her like that part where the beast turns back into a human and _Jesus_ , focus, Emma, look at the look on his face, this guy _loves_ you.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“Love you back.” His lips curled in that soft version of his smirk; he leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. She breathed into him, hoping he felt the light and love that she was willing into his body with that one simple kiss. Words escaped her, words she knew were true and minutes ago she wouldn’t have imagined this ever happening but now, _now_ she knew they were right and perfect and her magic bubbled furiously before simmering down into a place where she knew that from now on, things were exactly as they should be. This was right, this was good; this was love, this was Killian.

“Marry me?”

Those words. Those simple words. His breath caught, his mouth resting on hers, open and light, wonderful and right. She felt his startled nod and then he was grinning, big and full and wide and she felt it rather than saw it and her eyes welled but he was there, kissing her and laughing, his arms wrapping around her, his joy so infectious that her magic bubbled anew.

He pressed a kiss into her temple, a laugh huffing out his nose as he breathed into her hair.

“Aye, I’ll marry you. Ridiculous woman that you are.” His ensuing chuckles were filled with more pressed kisses and scoffing, and she didn’t even care that he was teasing her. All that mattered was him and this sudden forever that she tossed at him, and it was more than enough.


End file.
